When Faith Becomes Blind
by DrPraetorious
Summary: The Russian mob is vying for power in New York City. The Symkarian ambassador is nearly assassinated, and the accused assassin is a familiar face. Starring Daredevil, Black Widow, Silver Sable, and Cyclops.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note: Please note, this story follows the events of House of M by a couple of weeks but predates the events in Daredevil: The Murdock Papers. For those unfamiliar with those events, M-Day is a day in Marvel history where the majority of the earth's mutants lost their powers.**_

_**I don't own any of these characters. They are copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel. I'm not making anything by writing this. I hope you enjoy!**_

_I hate America,_ Silver Sablinova thought to herself as she ducked through the door in the side of her company's private jet and stood at the top of the telescopic stairs. The smell of pollution was thick on the humid summer air, and she wrinkled her nose as the wind blew her thick mane of dazzling white hair behind her. Sharp eyes scanned the runway, trying to see past the few reporters who had discovered the time and place of their arrival. Her face softened as she noticed a few in the crowd waving excitedly, wearing traditional Symkarian clothing. It was sometimes hard for her to cope with the fact that many of her homeland's citizens had fled to American soil in search for a "simpler" life. The few she'd known personally had found the exact opposite upon their arrival.

Still, she could understand the attraction of the legend and had perhaps been fooled herself in her younger years. In time, she'd learned that despite everything the "land of the free" offered, simplicity was not on the menu. Not in New York City, anyway, which was where she currently found herself stationed. For the next two weeks, this city would be her home. Or, perhaps more appropriately, her office for, make no mistake, this trip was purely business. Silver Sablinova, or Silver Sable as she was more commonly known, was typically in the bounty hunter business, though her company, Silver Sable International, offered a wide variety of services to those with pocketbooks large enough to inquire.

Her business in New York, however, was completely voluntary. To charge would have been counterintuitive as she would have been billing the State of Symkaria for services rendered when the purpose of Silver Sable International, her life's work, was to bring funds into her country. Her home.

The United Nations had called a special two-week session to discuss the ramifications of what had been deemed "M-Day" in the American media and what should be done on a global scale to handle the new status quo and the problems it seemed to be causing. Symkaria's inclusion had seemed questionable, considering the almost total absence of mutants in her population even _before_ M-Day, but, as a relatively new member of the international organization, she could understand why King Steffan was willing to send his ambassador to represent his wishes, even if the actual outcome didn't seem to have much effect on his people. Politics, she understood, consisted of posing and posturing and many other things she had no stomach for.

Silver was content to do her part by overseeing security and acting as the personal bodyguard for the ambassador himself, a Mr. Yuriy Nazim. He was a strange man, Sable reflected, very quiet with piercing eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses that sat low on his thin nose. He was bald and, despite his seemingly advanced age, the neatly cut hair on the sides of his face and his curled moustache and goatee were all a youthful-looking light brown. Still, he was always polite and courteous, kept conversation to a minimum, and was compulsively punctual. Needless to say, he was one of the very few politicians Silver didn't fancy shooting herself. This was a welcome change as it made her job as his bodyguard much more palatable.

After the third visual scan of the crowd, Sable was just about to turn her head into the plane and give clearance for the ambassador to exit the plane when something caught her eye. Once she saw him, she wondered how she had missed him at all. It was a large African-American male, standing head and shoulders above everyone else around him, bald, and, like herself, he was wearing sunglasses. These things in and of themselves were not worrisome. Two things set off alarms: the large tattoo or marking over one eye and the fact that, unlike the noisy crowd around him, he stood motionless and silent, and there was the look of determination etched onto his face.

Silver stared at him, double-checking her initial reaction, and she knew he was staring right back. Chill bumps rose on her skin beneath her skin-tight silver uniform, custom designed out of the highly-expensive unstable molecules and an advanced form of Kevlar, so that it protects _and_ breathes, and so that there was absolutely no chaffing. She hated chaffing.

She squinted behind her large sunglasses, counting another beat, giving the large man a final chance to back down and turn away, and then she made a decision. "Move," she barked in the dialect spoken widely throughout Symkaria. She pushed Ambassador Nazim, who was busily straightening his tie, back into the plane with her forearm and slapped the control button as she, too, ducked inside. The door slid shut and she heard the clanking of the stairs being drawn back into the plane's underbelly.

"Take us up, pilot," she said. "Now. We're landing somewhere else."

"What?" the ambassador said, obviously startled by the sudden change in plans. "What are you talking about? We've already landed!

The pilot looked back and forth, as if trying to decide which of his superiors he should obey. Silver pulled the sunglasses from her face and shot him a wicked scowl. "Take this plane up or I'll shoot you myself," she said. To emphasize the point, she snapped the holster strapped across her chest open and pulled the silver-plated pistol free.

The pilot wisely turned and began flipping switches and speaking into his headset, preparing for lift-off. Silver didn't replace the weapon. The weight was comforting in her hand. She moved over to one of the small windows on the jet, trying to spot her suspicious-looking man. She maneuvered her sight up and down, being sure to keep herself out of direct line-of-sight, until she finally caught him. While she watched, she saw him raise his large arms over his head. Her jaw dropped as the man's palms began to glow. _Mutant!_ she thought. "Brace yourselves!" she cried.

She ducked from the window, covering the back of her head with her hands, finger still on her trigger. Three words echoed in her mind as the plane rocked violently as some unseen force slammed into it, sending the plane and all of its occupants reeling.

_I hate America._

_--------------------------------_

A few hundred feet away, behind a large wall of glass, a tall, broad-shouldered man hidden under a brown fedora and large black sunglasses stood with his hands in the pockets of his thin jacket. Oblivious to the stares of the multitudes around him fanning themselves and striving to rid themselves of any unnecessary clothing, the man showed no signs of discomfort. He simply stared, emotionless and unaffected, through the glass.

A bright flash of energy reflected on his sunglasses, and the plane he'd been staring at rocked under the impact of the blast. The crowd gathered around the private jet ducked as in unison and scattered chaotically. Only one man remained: the man responsible for the attack. The silent man watched as the attacker raised his hands once again and buffeted the side of the plane once again. This time, the vessel tipped over. Huge dents and scratches raked the side of the once silver plane. An explosion rocked the jet further, and the glass shook in front of the tall man. Behind him, the airport was filled with a collective gasp and then shrieks of terror and confusion.

The man under the hat raised his hand and snapped his fingers. Though the sound was largely lost in the chaos, the gesture did not go unseen by his entourage, who had remained seated in their various positions in the rows of seats in the waiting area. They all stood in unison and, when the man in the fedora passed them, followed him in a group that, under careful scrutiny, could be discerned to be designed to look casual and unspectacular.

"Is it accomplished?" the man nearest the leader said in Russian.

"It is done," the hulking man replied, his voice deep and gravelly, almost a growl. "The ambassador is dead."

---------------------------------

"You have to do something. I know you could if you wanted to. You are the only hope for people like me, the people who are still trying to earn an honest living here in Hell's Kitchen!"

"I'm sorry," Matt Murdock replied. "But I don't think you quite understand me. You seem to have me confused with someone else. Despite what you might have read in the tabloids, I am not Daredevil."

"Pfffssshhh," the angry shop owner exclaimed. The smell of sprayed saliva filled the room and it carried with it garlic, onions, tomatoes and a breath mint, chewed recently, no doubt right before the man had entered his office.

Murdock shifted his head, holding his breath while the scent had time to fade. There was a loud scrape and then a crash as the disgruntled citizen knocked the chair he'd been standing behind, rubbing his hands on the fabric backing, to the floor. Matt didn't flinch. It happened a lot. Especially lately. That's why he'd replaced the leather chair with the inexpensive one that sat there now. Or used to.

"I come here for help, and I get silly excuses and pointless lies," the man exclaimed through his Italian accent. "I tell you, the Russians are up to something! Every day there are more and more of them and already they have threatened three businesses on my street! It is only a matter of time before they come knocking at my door, and what do I tell them, eh? That I barely have enough money to pay the bills and feed my family?"

"You swore to be the new Kingpin, and to keep these criminals out of Hell's Kitchen. That is why I moved my business here seven months ago."

The man's footsteps echoed on the floor as he shuffled for the door. He didn't want to leave. He hadn't wanted to come in the first place, but he was telling the truth when he said he was desperate. And he was still waiting on the answer he wanted to hear.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Fratelli," Matt Murdock replied, his voice as cool as ice. "I wish I could help you."

"Ehhh," Mr. Fratelli exclaimed as he slammed the door shut behind him.

Matt winced. "I really do," he said.

He turned his head, focusing on the man's angry footsteps until he heard them pass through the outer door and rush down the hall.

"Did you hear that?" he said in his normal voice.

Heels with built-in shock absorbers dropped onto the concrete balcony through the open French doors behind his desk. The warm, exotic smell of Natalia Romanova filled his office and he silently inhaled deeply, feasting on the marvelous odor--certainly a welcome replacement from that of his previous guest's.

"You are no fun, Matthew," the woman replied as she approached him from behind. "Just once I wish you'd at least pretend to be surprised."

There was a playfulness in her otherwise smoky voice, hinted with a Russian accent she chose to cling to, despite the years of training and experience she'd had at hiding it, and Matt allowed himself a quick smile before he spun his chair around to face her.

"If you want me to act surprised," he replied, "then I suggest you stop clomping around on the roof like a Clydesdale."

Natalia sniffed a half-laugh, knowing that his words couldn't have been further from the truth but taking the challenge, nevertheless. If she must be quieter, then she would be quieter.

"It is good to see you again so soon, Matthew," she said. "I must admit I was surprised to receive your call."

"It's good to see you, too, Natasha, and I'm sorry to have bothered you. As you just heard, the problem I described to you on the phone has only continued to worsen. It seems the Russian mafia is following in the steps of the Yakuza, Owl's gang, and every other two-bit hood with a gun and a dream. They've got their eyes on New York City, and they're starting with Hell's Kitchen."

"The new Kingpin's turf."

There was a sarcasm in Natasha's words that made her disapproval obvious. Matt chose to ignore it.

"It is true," she added after a beat. "I have heard whispers of a hostile takeover, but, to be honest, Matt, it didn't seem like anything you couldn't handle on your own. Why call me?"

She looked at the handsome man, his red-hair standing out in shocking contrast to his tanned face, sunglasses, and dazzlingly white dress shirt, pressed and starched to perfection. She shifted her weight, placing her hand on her hip, defined seductively, she knew, in her skin-tight black costume. She was about to object to his ignoring her when she noticed him turn his head ever so slightly towards the door.

She stepped back quickly, disappearing into what little shadow could be found in the corner of Matt's office. Her legs tightened, ready to pounce at the open balcony at a moment's notice. Matt's hand rose, and Natasha relaxed, but only a little.

The doorknob turned and she recognized the disheveled profile through the shaded window in Matt's door and a thin grin spread onto her full lips.

"Boy, Matt," Foggy Nelson laughed as he pushed his way into the office, "I never get tired of you sending'em out storming like…"

Foggy froze in the entrance, still holding the door open, while his brain registered the sights before him. One sight, in particular, had him entranced. It was a few seconds before he spoke again, and Natasha couldn't help but think that her costume accomplished all that it was designed for, including distraction. She could have shot him fifteen times before he could even remember to pull his jaw back up from the floor.

"N-Natasha!" he said. "It's always a p-pleasant surprise to see you."

"Likewise, Mr. Nelson," she cooed as she stepped forward, purposefully moving close to the back of Matt's chair. She raised her eyebrow as she looked him over. "And aren't you looking dapper today?"

Foggy brought his fingers through his hair, and it fell just as unruly as it had been before. He looked down at himself and his crooked tie and his shirt largely untucked from his wrinkly brown trousers, and he threw up his hands.

"A man does what he can," he said, smiling. After a brief silence, Foggy started fidgeting. "Well, I-I guess I'll leave you two alone." He slapped his thigh and then raised his hand in a wave. "See ya!" He pointed to Natasha. "Don't be a stranger, now!"

"Goodbye, Foggy," she said, her grin widening at his discomfort.

"Goodbye," he said as he pulled the door shut behind him until it clicked softly.

"I'm sorry," Matt said. "I would have stopped him at the door, but you just made his week."

The smile on Natasha's face stiffened. That wasn't the real reason he'd allowed Foggy to interrupt them and they both knew it. He would answer her question. Sooner or later.

"What do you know?" she said coolly. "He just made mine, too. I'll be waiting for you at sundown."

Matt listened as her footsteps again headed for the door. He heard her heart leap with adrenaline as she prepared mentally and physically to scale the wall.

"Don't be late," she added, and with a whoosh she was gone.

Matt shook his head. How many other women could scale a building in broad daylight without being spotted, much less a building under constant scrutiny by nickel and dime reporters looking to get rich by spotting a certain red costume anywhere near Matt Murdock's office? The answer, he knew, was limited to three or four, and that made his friend, the Black Widow, a very, very special woman.

_Besides the assassin_, he thought, _I doubt I'll ever meet a woman like that again._

_---------------------------------_

"I'll kill him!" Silver Sable exclaimed. She spat a string of expletives with no regard to language or vulgarity as her jet rocked again. This time, the plane tumbled sideways. She cringed when she heard the wing slam into the concrete, seeing only the bottom line of the bill she'd signed to purchase the custom-built craft. The extra cost, she thought, seemed to have paid off, though. Any other craft would have been falling apart under the beating her plane was taking.

An explosion sent her reeling across the floor. "The engine!" she yelled. "Don't worry, we're safe!" The engines, too, had been custom-designed, keeping the majority of the fuel supply safely under the armored underbelly. She pulled herself up, trying to steady herself on the steep pitch of the plane's floor, and re-holstered her gun.

She recalled the pause between blasts. Assuming he had to wait those few seconds for his power to "recharge," she knew she had a few left to act. "Stay here!" she yelled to the ambassador. With a grunt, she blew the hair from her face and rushed for the door. She buried her right hand deep into a handhold specially designed into the door and punched a quick sequence of buttons on the pad next to the door. As soon as she'd finished the sequence, she clutched the door with her left hand as well. Her legs pumped beneath her and she tightened her biceps, bracing herself for what was coming. "1… 2… 3…" she counted aloud. She shut her eyes tight, and was yanked with explosive force from the plane as powerful air jets built into the door fired simultaneously, launching the door and it's "passenger" into the air.

In midair, she released the door, turning her body back. She pulled her gun from her holster and held it tightly in her right hand and pulled a weighted chai, a moon-shaped weighted blade of her own design, from a strap on her leg and held it in her left-hand.

Her powerful legs shook under the impact of her landing and she ran forward several paces to keep herself from pitching forward with the powerful inertia. The door landed a few feet in front of her and skidded to a stop amongst loud screeching and a rain of sparks.

The attacker's eyebrows showed his surprise at her sudden escape, and she knew already that she would win this fight. He raised his fists to blast her. By the time they started glowing, he had a chai jutting from his thigh and a fresh bullet hole in his shoulder.

Silver's own eyebrow raised in surprise when the large man didn't fall but merely stumbled backwards, knocked off-balance by the power of the gunshot. Silver ran, again taking advantage of the pause she'd bought herself. With a loud yell, she launched herself into the air, landing a powerful kick on her victim's neck. Huge hands wrapped themselves around her thigh and sent her flying over his shoulder.

She hit the ground hard on her shoulder, but rolled a few revelations and then landed on one knee. Two chais whistled through the air, landing with soft "chucks" as they sank deep into flesh and muscle. She'd aimed carefully this time, and her attacker fell to his knees with a loud shout of pain, clutching his thigh. He wouldn't walk again for weeks, if ever. She didn't care.

She picked her pistol up from the ground where it had fallen when she'd been tossed and buried it into the man's forehead. She could hear his skin burn as the hot barrel touched skin. "You move, you die," she said through clenched teeth.

The man was silent. Angered, Sable drew back the pistol and cracked it across his skull, sending him to the concrete unconscious.

"Unconscionable bastard," she spat. She re-holstered her gun, fastening the snap that covered it. "You're buying me a new jet." She landed a swift kick to his midsection and then headed towards the approaching crowd of emergency and security personnel.


	2. Call me Silver Sable

The sun descended quickly down the horizon, warming Scott Summers' back through the ornate windows behind his desk. He wished that he could turn around and enjoy the sensation. He longed to be outside, anywhere but here, in this office, sweaty palms clasped tightly, resting on a desk that he'd inherited from someone he had long considered his surrogate father—a desk that was quickly becoming buried beneath a mountain of paperwork, phone numbers and messages, and generally work that he needed to do. More than anything, though, he wanted to be away from the woman who now sat directly opposite from him, framed by stacks of paper, wiping away crocodile tears with a bone dry tissue.

She was middle-aged, though it was clear by looking at her that she had no desire to consider herself as such. She wore a skirt far too short, her skin unhealthily tanned, and her lips had been recently inflated to an unnatural fullness with collagen. Even through his scarlet-colored sunglasses, Scott could see the slight scars left from the injection.

He stifled a sigh and waited semi-patiently for the woman to finish her latest bout of "mourning."

"Mrs. Zbornak," the man codenamed Cyclops said.

"Ms.," she corrected, dropping her tissue away from her clear eyes for just an instant.

Scott paused, and then continued. "I'm sorry. _Ms._ Zbornak, the Xavier Institute is as horrified and deeply troubled by the tragic loss of your daughter as you are. Every security precaution was made to keep your child safe during her stay with us. I'm sure the presence of the ONE Squad outside the mansion did not escape your attention…"

"I saw them," Ms. Zbornak replied. "Those mechanical monstrosities are on the wrong side of the fence, if you ask me."

Scott paused once again before speaking, swallowing the anger that threatened to manifest itself in his voice. It was precisely the kind of attitude he'd expected from this woman. Her entire life story and mental profile were contained in the manila folder held tightly beneath his interlaced fingers. Ms. Zbornak and her then-husband had gladly accepted Xavier's offer to 'take their filthy daughter off of their hands,' seeing her ability to absorb nutrients and energy from the soil as a 'nasty habit' and the resulting glow as an 'incessant annoyance.'

"We were very proud of your daughter," Cyclops continued as if he hadn't heard her petty prejudicial comments. "All of the students we lost on that bus were dearly loved by our staff and student-body alike. Rest assured, we share your loss."

Scott dropped his eyes to another folder sitting on his desk. Unknotting his hands, he lifted the thin package from his desk and leaned forward, offering it to her. She accepted, and immediately opened it, her eyes reading and searching frantically.

Cyclops' eyes narrowed behind the opaque lenses of ruby quartz that kept his own mutant ability in check. "As a gesture of our most sincere and heartfelt sorrow, the Xavier Institute is prepared to offer something we've deemed a 'Memorial Gift.'"

He watched the disgustingly orange woman's eyes widen and then narrow as they finally stumbled across what they were looking for. The bottom line. The price of pain. Scott had repeated this gesture far too many times in the two days previous. He'd seen genuine pain and sadness on many parents' faces. There had been some whose faces lit up, embarrassed and overjoyed at the generous offering. Others hadn't even opened the folder, disgusted at the mere prospect of a monetary "gift" to pay for the life of their beloved child.

It saddened Scott deeply, though, that he had seen far, far too many faces mirror the expression Ms. Zbornak now made as her eyes shifted from the paper and bore deeply into Scott's own eyes. The face of greed.

"I will not sign this," she said. "I will not, at this time, put a price on the pain and the loss you have caused me and my family."

Scott sighed, not even bothering to hide his disgust any longer. "Ms. Zbornak, that is a _substantial_ amount of money. I would ask that you reconsider, especially considering the rather lengthy and legally-binding disclaimer you signed upon your child's enrollment at the Xavier's Institute."

"Are you threatening me?" she replied, leaning forward confrontationally. She tossed the folder onto the desk, sending its contents and several other pages flying. Her eyes darted to the name plate sitting in front of him and then stood, jabbing her finger into his face. Scott leaned back, but his expression, a stoic frown, did not change.

"My daughter had just turned normal again, and then you allowed her to be taken from me!" Ms. Zbornak's face darkened in tone as her anger peaked. "You _will_ be hearing from my lawyers! When I'm done, I'll own this place!"

He stood slowly and gathered the pages and stuffed them back into the folder. "You understand, I hope, that this was a one-time offer. I repeat my condolences." He pulled a card from a stack that was shorter by more than half than it had been two days ago. "Here is the number for our team of lawyers. They'll have the details on the case and how you and your lawyer can be included."

As if on cue, the door suddenly opened and the beautiful, blond-haired Emma Frost stepped in, wearing her traditional white despite the occasion, though her clothing was uncharacteristically modest… For Emma, anyway. Her head was tilted back just slightly, so that she looked down her nose at the startled Ms. Zbornak. Her distaste for the woman was almost tangible.

Scott couldn't say he blamed Emma for her feelings, but he also found her telepathic eavesdropping increasingly annoying. With Emma around, there definitely weren't any private meetings being conducted at the Institute.

"Good day, Ms. Zbornak," Scott said.

"I trust you remember your way out," Emma added. "And yes, we _would_ notice if the lamp in the sitting room went missing."

"W- well, I never!" Ms. Zbornak replied, clutching the card to her chest. "Do you mean to imply…?" She turned and glared at Cyclops. "You might think about teaching your staff some manners, Mr. Summers," she shouted. "This isn't the last you've heard of me!"

She turned and stormed from the desk, sneering down at Emma's large, partially exposed breasts. "Hussy!" she hissed.

"Oh, please," Emma replied, crossing her arms and sending her own snooty stare as the older woman pushed past her and headed down the hall. "Believe me, that college drop-out you're 'seeing' three times a week behind his mother's back does not make you any younger _or_ more valid as a woman."

There was a noise that Scott could only describe as a high-pitched roar and then the quick clacking of high-heeled shoes racing down the hallway.

"Was that really necessary?" Scott asked.

Emma was silent for a moment, her eyes watching something Scott couldn't see, until her face turned into a slight snarl. "That bitch _did_ take that lamp," she said.

"Let her have it," Scott said, sitting back down into his leather chair. "It's the only thing she'll be getting."

"But I liked that lamp," she pouted.

Scott bent his head, hiding the grin that crept to his lips. "Was that the end of them?"

"Sadly, no," Emma replied, shifting her weight and jutting one toned hip to the side. "But I've sent the rest of them home. I'm afraid something has come up."

Scott raised his eyes from the desk. "What?" he said, confusion evident in his voice. "What's happened?"

Another blond marched into the room, though this one was much more conservatively dressed in a navy suit jacket and skirt. Her hair was pulled tightly back into a painful-looking ponytail, and her face seemed to be frozen in a perpetual frown.

"Dr. Cooper," Scott said, his voice neutral. 'How can I h--?"

"Let's cut the crap, Summers," Valerie Cooper said as she walked briskly to the side of his desk, where she placed both hands and leaned towards him. "We've got one hell of a bad situation and the longer we sit on this, the worse it's going to get."

"There's been what appears to be an assassination attempt on the Symkarian Ambassador to the United Nations exactly forty-five minutes ago at the airport where his private jet had landed. We've got property damage and witnesses out the wazoo, and we need this cleaned up, and I mean yesterday."

"I'm sorry," Scott said, frowning. "Maybe I'm missing something. How does this involve the X-Men?"

"Oh, you're involved, all right," Valerie responded with a mirthless chuckle. "Because the assassin is one of yours."

_Oh, no,_ Scott thought. _Not Logan. Not again._ His hands tightened on the desk until his knuckles were bright white. "Who?" he said, his voice low.

"It's Bishop," Emma said.

---

_Found you,_ Matt thought to himself. His nostrils flared once again, confirming what he already knew to be true. He'd "spotted" the Black Widow, three buildings over. There was nobody else on earth that smelled like she did. It was rare that the man known as Daredevil encountered a scent he couldn't identify and break up into all of its individual components. True, there were aspects of Natasha's unique odor that were familiar. Her expensive shampoo, the perfume sold only in countries he wasn't sure he could pronounce properly, and the strange rubber/leather/Kevlar mix that signified her specially designed costume. But with Natasha, there was always something else… He imagined it was probably natural. The combination of a strict but fascinating diet and her own body chemistry, boosted by untold medical means and a metabolism fired by endless exercise.

_At any rate_, he told himself as he pulled his uniquely designed billy club from its pouch on his leg and ran for the edge of the roof he was standing on, _there's no denying that's her._

The air whistled around him as he dove from the parapet. He tilted his head, allowing the sounds around him to fuel his "radar sense," allowing the mental picture of his surroundings to grow and fill with details. With a flick of his wrist, one end of his billy club shot through the air, carrying a powerful cable, and twisted lazily around a protuberance on the building's façade. The cord tightened as Matt's weight pulled the on it, and the club fastened itself securely.

Matt tensed his arm, absorbing the pull of his own body weight, and swung through the alley. He grabbed his end of the club with both hands and extended his legs before him, twisting his body as the wind told him to keep from colliding into the side of the building. Finally, as he was reaching the upward-most arc of his swing, he pulled his legs back and then threw them forward. At the same time, he flipped his wrist, allowing a moment's slack on the cord and allowing the club to fall from its perch on the building.

He tucked his legs close to his chest, tumbling through the air. At the last second, he opened, landing on powerful legs atop the next building. He paused for a moment, absorbing the extra inertia, and then, using what was left, shot forward into another run.

With another flying leap, he landed with a soft grunt onto a low office complex. His thumb slid to a small button on his club and the cord quickly disappeared inside the thin weapon.

"You're late," Natasha said, stepping out from behind a large heating/cooling unit, exactly where he knew she was.

As she spoke, Matt felt the sun finally disappear behind the horizon. His skin prickled at the sensation as the temperature dropped suddenly. He wondered idly if Natasha could even feel the difference. "No I'm not," he said matter-of-factly. "Have you seen anything?"

"Nothing," she replied. "Of course, I haven't just been sitting and waiting around for you all day. Do you know the last time I had an afternoon in New York City with nothing stopping me from spending my retirement on clothes that I will never get a chance to wear?"

Matt heard her footsteps and "watched" as she strolled to the building's edge and leaned over carelessly.

"I found a pair of truly lethal heels," she said, her voice bored. "Red. You'd like them."

"My favorite," Matt replied, stepping closer to the edge himself. "Look, Nat…" he started, but a man's shriek of terror and pain stopped him mid-word. He turned his head, trying to zone out the traffic below and innumerable sounds of the city to pinpoint where the attack was going down.

"What is it?" Black Widow whispered. Even with her voice lowered, at this level of concentration her voice boomed inside his skull. Matt raised his finger, silencing her.

_C'mon,_ he thought, _tell me where you are. Make some noise._

There was another scream and a sickening gurgling sound, but it was faint. Whatever was going on, it was far away. Without a word, Daredevil leapt into the air, swinging through the air, trying his best to stay focused on the direction of the noise, to pinpoint its exact location.

_We're not going to make it,_ he thought. _Have to hurry. Can't be late. Concentrate. Focus._

Matt peeled back layer after layer of sound, at the same time trying to navigate through the streets of the city without falling to his death. There were a few more sounds of struggle, and he thought he heard some hurried footsteps. At this distance, he just couldn't be sure. He tried to hold onto them. He ground his teeth in a snarl, straining his senses to their limit. A semi truck below blew its horn, tires screeched, and metal smashed into metal. The world seemed to shake around Matt as disorientation wracked him. His hand nearly slipped from his club.

Adrenaline-fueled panic raced through his veins, guiding him to the ground. His feet hit concrete harder than he would have liked, but he thanked God that he'd actually survived.

After a few seconds, blood pumping in his ears and chest heaving, Natasha landed next to him. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"I lost them," Matt replied, speaking between breaths. "The attackers. Five blocks east, an attack. At least two dead."

A soft click signaled the launch of Natasha's own grappling cord and she disappeared, knowing better than to wait on Matt.

When the ringing finally stopped in his ears, Matt pulled himself together and followed her through the air. The closer he got, the angrier he got with himself, especially as he turned, falling onto the sidewalk just a few feet from the incident. The smells hit him like a wall: blood, bile, and everything else that signaled the arrival of death.

Natasha was already there, her warmth bent over the rapidly cooling corpses.

"They're all dead," she said.

Matt stepped over to the brick wall behind them, and his fist rapped as he pounded it against the hard surface in frustration. He heard the powerful tendons and muscles in Natasha's legs tighten as her knees straightened. "Three of them. They look like skinheads. Not exactly the type of people you should beat yourself up over."

"Skinheads?" Matt asked aloud, though the question was more for himself. There were gangs, of course, of every kind in New York and especially in Hell's Kitchen, but skinheads? "Tattoos?" he asked.

"Yeah. Swastikas. A couple of poorly-drawn Hitlers," Natasha said, craning her head to interpret the black ink imbedded in the victims' twisted bodies. "And they all have the Sapien League emblem."

_Sapien League_, Murdock thought. _Mutant haters._ "Probably a rival gang," Daredevil said. "But this doesn't seem like the Russians. This seems like a… an animal attack."

"I agree," Natasha replied, obviously every bit as puzzled as Matt.

He stepped away from the wall, crossing his arms. "Well, it's the Russians we're after…" As he spoke, a very familiar scent caught in his nostrils, floating up from his gloved hand. Blood. It was all over the place, but he hadn't touched anything but the wall, and even this blood-bath shouldn't have carried that far.

"Widow," he said. "The wall. What do you see?"

Her boots scraped the concrete as she moved closer. "It's blood," she said, her face very close to the brick. "It's really hard to see, but I think it might say something."

"I have excellent night-vision," she said, still moving back and forth in front of the message that the attackers had left them. "And I can't make it out on this wall. Whoever wrote it must have had a light." Her head turned toward Matt. "You don't happen to have a flashlight on you, do you?"

Matt didn't respond.

"Didn't think so," Widow said stepping away from the bricks. "It's too small and too dark. We'll have to come back."

"The police might be here by then." Daredevil stepped forward, removing his glove. This was going to be tough, and he had to hurry if it was going to work at all. "Lead me," he said. "Where does it start?"

Natasha's smooth bare skin touched Matt's wrist. Gently, she directed his outstretched palm to the appropriate coordinates. "Here," she said. "The writing begins and stretches approximately a meter. I think there might be two rows of writing, but I'm not sure."

Slowly, carefully, Matt pulled his hand across the wall, keeping his palm mere centimeters from the ragged brick. His jaw was set and his unseeing eyes were closed tightly. His mind's eye struggled to "see" the words, formed with the quickly evaporating heat from the life's blood scrawled so carelessly on the wall. In all of his experiences, messages left in blood were either a warning or a red herring. Either way, they were always windows into the attacker's mind, whether he knew it or not.

_F—F-a._ The process was slow and inexact. It took all of Matt's concentration to make out the letters. Remembering them wasn't hard. It was just like Braille. Even with his attention focused, the blaring of sirens approaching did not escape his notice.

"Matthew," Natasha said, turning away from the wall. "I believe we are about to have company."

_Of course,_ Matt thought to himself. _Any other day, the police in Hell's Kitchen scatter from a crime like roaches from light. Just my luck that today is the day they decide to go to work._

"Faith must be enforced by reason," Matt said, putting together the first line of writing. He hurriedly moved his hand back to the start of the next line. He heard Natasha mouth the words to herself, her quick mind undoubtedly trying to place the meaning and significance of the statement.

"When Faith becomes Blind…" Matt continued. The writing seemed to suddenly change completely, becoming large and messy. The thickness of the blood made it easy to read. "… _It dies_."

---

"This doesn't make any sense," Scott Summers said, his voice shaken by his quick pace as he and Dr. Valerie Cooper rushed down a brightly-lit hallway. "Why would Bishop want to attack the Symkarian ambassador? Has Bishop ever even _been _to Symkaria? Are we sure it's really him?"

"For the third time, Mr. Summers, yes, we're sure it's him (as sure as one can be these days), and, as I believe I mentioned, we were hoping _you_ might be able to shed some light on his history," she said. She was clearly agitated and her high-heeled shoes sounded loudly on the tiled floor.

Scott didn't look at her as she spoke. The last half-hour he'd spent with her in the limo to this secure location had only served to remind him of how much he disliked this woman.

"Our files," she said. "Seem to be woefully empty for Lucas Bishop, the man you claim comes from a future that, in all likelihood, will never come about."

"And I've told you," Scott fired back. "I would tell you if I knew. Bishop isn't exactly the kind of man who waxes nostalgic about his past."

"He also didn't seem like the kind of man who would blow up a plane full of innocent people," Valerie said. "I guess Mr. Bishop is positively _ripe_ with surprises."

At this last comment, Scott did turn his head. There was more in her voice than mere annoyance or indignity. She seemed almost personally affected by Bishop's actions. He'd heard rumors around the mansion, through Emma of course, that Bishop and Valerie were spending a lot of time together. Honestly, he hadn't thought anything about it. Suddenly, the idea didn't seem so unbelievable.

"Bishop is _not_ the kind of man who would attack innocent men," Scott said. Valerie stopped suddenly as she reached a door clearly identified as the "Interrogation Room." She entered a seemingly endless amount of characters into the electronic doorpad and then touched her thumb to a red scanner. Finally, the door clanged as locks disengaged, and Dr. Cooper turned the handle and opened the door.

"If Bishop was involved," Scott continued as he stepped through the entrance. "I'm sure there's a logical explanation."

There, sitting behind a field of energy, was Lucas Bishop. There was no mistaking his dark, Aboriginal skin, the serious demeanor on his face, and the large "M" tattooed over his eye. His hands were locked in a huge contraption Scott guessed was designed to keep his powers negated. From the bruises and glazed look in his eyes, Scott also guessed that his teammate had been beaten and drugged.

The Interrogation Room was not empty, however. A woman shorter than Scott with hair as white as Magneto's was leaning in the corner, her arms crossed on her chest, and a stare as cold as the windiest arctic night. It was all Scott could do to keep himself from shivering.

"If there is a logical explanation," the white-haired woman said in a thick European accent that Scott couldn't quite place. "I would be all too pleased to hear it."

"Scott Summers, I would like you to meet the Symkarian Ambassador's personal bodyguard," Valerie said, extending her hand to the attractive woman in the silver bodysuit. "Miss Silver Sablinova."

The woman rolled her eyes. Scott guessed Valerie had mispronounced her name. She pushed from the wall and stepped forward, though nothing like a greeting was offered. "Call me Silver Sable," she said.


	3. Following Leads

When the police force patrolling Hell's Kitchen arrived at the bloody crime scene in the dark, dank alley, they found only three dead bodies. Several stories above them, however, Natalia Romanova watched, her leg perched on a low parapet, and her elbow resting on her knee. Within seconds after arriving, she noted that the officers had already ignored several directives regarding the treatment of a crime scene and evidential material. The bodies were moved, turned over, and then nudged with boots back onto their faces. The ex-spy known as Black Widow scoffed and turned from the scene. She couldn't see much anyway without her binoculars.

"I knew I should have brought my other wristbands," she said. "That's twice I was ill-equipped." Up here, on the rooftops, there was no reason to whisper. She kept her voice low, though, and her voice dropped further still when she noticed Matt Murdock, the Daredevil, with his ear trained to the alley below. He was following their proceedings using his super senses. Natasha never let on, but his abilities never ceased to amaze. "Inexcusable," she finished softly, mostly to herself.

While Matt busied himself with eavesdropping on the policemen, Natasha turned her mind back to the 'writing on the wall' they'd found. As she pondered, repeating the phrase in her mind, another part of her brain wondered why they were still hanging around. They were too late. The bad guys got away. Just a few moments ago, Matt himself had been ready to walk away from the crime scene. They were after the Russians. What did the death of a few skinheads, brutal as it may have been, have to do with the Russian mob?

"_When faith becomes blind,"_ she repeated mentally. She knew she'd heard or read that phrase before. But where?

"They're calling for backup," Matt spoke in his Daredevil voice, lower and more grim than his everyday tone.

Natasha's eyebrow raised. It wasn't exactly a startling revelation. "So?" she asked.

"They're calling in an animal expert," he explained further. "It seems they came up with the same assumption we did. They think some wild animal might be on the rampage."

Natasha's brow furled. "So they didn't notice the writing…"

"Not yet. It's dark. It would be hard to see on the brick, especially with the police lights washing everything out." His head turned slightly towards her. "We almost missed it, too."

"So they'll find it in the morning," Natasha said, her patience wearing thin. "No offense, Matthew, but they can handle it. Don't we have better things to do?"

There was a pause. He was thinking. Natasha saw his nostrils flare. "Something here just doesn't smell right. Who was that message for? What does it mean?"

Suddenly, a memory clicked into place in her mind. "Gandhi!" she said.

"What?"

"The message. It's a quote from Gandhi." She watched as the question formed on Matt's lips. She waited for it, but it never came. He trusted her. It felt good.

"Gandhi," he repeated. His voice was even more confused. Natasha had to admit that the source of the quote hadn't really opened up any more clues for her either.

Finally, Matt rose from the crouching position he'd been in. "Another time," he said. "You're right. We have other fish to fry." He pulled his modified billy club from its pocket on his leg and yanked the cord connecting its halves taut. "Take me to the Russians," he said with a determined sneer.

---

"Siberia?" Silver Sable exclaimed, slamming her hands down on the table and leaning forward sharply.

Once again, Scott Summers found himself staring back at his verbal assailant with an unimpressed frown. Up until this point, he'd been appreciative of Miss Sable's professionalism. How soon that had changed. Unfortunately for her, he couldn't help that she didn't like his answer. He was simply providing the information available to him.

"And what was Mr. Bishop _supposedly_ doing in Siberia?" Sable continued.

"Investigating," Scott replied. "That's what Bishop does. He's a detective."

"So I've been told." Silver turned from the table, crossing her arms with disapproval.

Scott remained sitting. Valerie was next to him. They were at a thick wooden table sitting in front of the "cell" containing Bishop, a man Scott Summers had long considered a trusted teammate and companion, if not exactly a friend. His contact with many of the X-Men had been limited for various reasons. Though their numbers had been lessened recently, tragically, the X-Men were still a family. He would not stand by and see a man be unfairly hanged to dry.

At the same time, he couldn't deny the fact that Silver Sable had battled with the man before him, a man who _very_ much resembled Lucas Bishop. Whether Sable decided to be professional about this or not, he certainly was going to remain cool headed. Reason and logic, he knew, would have to be upheld above all else if the truth would be found.

"Mr. Summers," Dr. Valerie Cooper interjected. "What exactly was the nature of Bishop's investigation in Siberia?"

Scott's eyes left the back of Silver's head and turned to Dr. Cooper. In his peripheral vision he could see Bishop staring at him with eyes that seemed to look through him. A string of drool dripped from his bruised lip. The indignity sent a flare of anger firing deep inside Scott's heart. He had to compose himself before he could speak.

"As I mentioned," he said, "Bishop has not been under my jurisdiction for quite some time. His skills were more suited for the X.S.E. I try to keep track of all of the current and past X-Men, but with a roster almost as long as the Avengers', you can understand how that might be difficult. All I've been able to gather is that he was tracking down the sources of a violently pro-mutant cult."

"_Pro_-mutant?" Dr. Cooper repeated, obviously surprised. "We're not talking about those Magneto fanatics, are we?"

"The Acolytes? No, no." Scott shook his head. "All indications point to an entirely new group with no ties to Magneto whatsoever, though Bishop, in his brief preliminary report, mentioned that he suspected a powerful mutant of some kind would be in charge."

"I would like to see that report," Silver said without turning around to face them. "And anything else that Bishop submitted to either you or the X.S.E. in the last two months."

"Certainly," Scott said calmly. "I'm sure that can be arranged. I speak only for the Xavier Institute, of course."

"Look, Mr. Summers," Sable said, whirling around and stabbing her finger at him through the air as if it were a dagger. "I don't know what you're so goddamn calm about. If King Steffan of Symkaria wasn't such a patient, trusting man, this attack could be construed as an act of aggression by the United States government. And if you don't find yourself more cooperative, and I mean soon, I will be suggesting just that to His Majesty myself."

"Miss Sable," Scott stated calmly, "I will cooperate in any way I can. I neither defend nor deny the actions taken by this man," he indicated the man bound behind the energy field to his right. "I _would_, however, like to take him back to the Xavier Institute. We have instruments that could ver-"

"No!" Sable exclaimed. "That will not happen. I have read about you X-Men. You are breaking the laws as often as upholding them. This man will not be released from custody. He will not be moved until this, largely unnecessary, investigation is completed. This man _is_ Lucas Bishop. You said so yourself. And he is guilty. It will take a miracle to convince me otherwise."

Slowly, Scott slid his chair away from the table. "In that case, it was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Sable. I assure you we _will_ get to the bottom of this."

Valerie shot him a startled look, but she, too, stood from the table. Scott had to fight a smirk. She didn't want to be left alone with this woman any more than he wanted to spend another minute with her.

"And just where do you think you're going?" Sable said, stepping forward quickly to cut them off before they reached the door.

Scott stopped and looked deeply into her fiery eyes. "I'm going to look for a miracle." He raised his arm and gently pushed her aside while excusing himself.

"And what the hell does that mean?" Sable cried after him.

"It means I'm going to Siberia," Scott said.

Sable stood in the room, glaring at the man that had attacked her ambassador and destroyed her airplane. She again crossed her arms on her chest. She shifted her weight from one side to the other. With a loud and angry sigh, she marched through the door. "I'm coming with you!" she cried after them.

---

"Here we are," Natasha said, extending her arm to the building opposite them. The pair, Daredevil and she, were perched, hiding like gargoyles on the side of an old twenty story building, hidden in the shadows from the crowd crossing the street and lining the sidewalks below.

"Here?" Matthew asked, as if she were the blind one and not him.

"That's the word on the street," she returned. The evening had turned cold. A breeze blew her hair into her eyes and she tucked it quickly behind her ear. _So much for retirement,_ she mused, _but I refuse to cut my hair again._ She fought a few strands that refused to stay put. _No matter how annoying it is._

The sounds of laughter and excited chatter bubbled up from the street, carrying with them the overwhelming smell of popcorn. It made her belly growl. Her gloved hand clutched her complaining abdomen. "That smells wonderful," she whispered.

"It's blinding," Matt said. "Are you sure this is the place?"

"Midtown Cinemas," she said. "I know it isn't exactly your typical mafia headquarters, but my sources are reliable. They say that these guys are being careful. Flying way under the radar, like they're waiting for something." She shrugged. "Makes sense. Where else are you going to hide two hundred Russians wearing suits and sunglasses?"

She looked at Matt. His face, or what could be seen of it beneath his cowl, was as stony as the statues they were keeping company. His head was, once again, cocked to one side. He was scoping the place as only the Daredevil could.

"Found them," he said. "There's a basement. It's huge. They must have set up shop quite a while ago. I hear pool tables, drinks being poured. They're celebrating."

"What are they saying?" Natasha asked, wishing she could hear them. She knew Matthew's grasp of the Russian language was spotty at best.

"Something about a warning being sounded…" he paused. "There are several conversations. I can't really pull them apart."

Natasha nodded. "So how do you want to handle this? We can't exactly march through the front door." She knew what he was going to say. She didn't even know why she asked. She supposed she was just hoping he wouldn't say it.

"We wait."

Natasha sighed heavily and fell from her crouched position, resting her back against the stone wall. _He said it, _she thought. "Next time," she said with a pout, "You can call Spider-Woman."


	4. Cyclops

Fifteen minutes were wasted arguing over whose transportation would be used to travel to Siberia. Scott Summers knew what the end result would be. Or, at least, he knew how _he_ was getting to Siberia. So he used the time to call the mansion. It wasn't a very long conversation. Just long enough to let Hank (who was always good enough to answer the phone) know that he would be leaving for Siberia and to have a bag prepared and brought to the secondary hangars.

"Okay," Scott said when he'd had enough of the bickering between Dr. Valerie Cooper and their tag-a-long, Silver Sable. "That's enough. We've wasted enough time."

"Silver, your jet is ruined," he said, looking into the angry woman's severe eyes. "And Dr. Cooper, we don't have time for you to fill out the paperwork or get approval for a visit to north Asia, much less find an available jet and pilot. We'll take a back up jet the X-Men keep on hand for just such emergencies."

Scott didn't even wait for a response. He simply wrote down the address of the hangar, located several miles north of Xavier's Institute, and handed a copy to Dr. Cooper and another to Silver Sable. "Meet me here in an hour and a half. Pack warm but light. It's a small jet."

He could have just as simply sent them to the mansion, where the Blackbird sat waiting. He had no desire, though, for either of them to see the inside of the X-Men's jet or to tie up the Blackbird for such a small group of people. The back up jet would do fine. It had the equipment he needed.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the taxi he'd called pull up. He turned and walked briskly to the white and yellow car. He looked at his watch, noting the time, as he said, "If you're not there, I'm leaving without you."

Scott used the hour it took to arrive at the secluded hangar to make several phone calls, which helped to shed a small amount of light on Bishop's reason for being in Siberia and the locations he'd visited while in that enormously vast region. More than anything, though, he discovered that Bishop, too, had taken one of Xavier's jets. That, he hoped, would make their current mission far, far easier.

As the cabbie drove slowly up the gravel road to the fenced airfield, he let out a slow whistle. "What are you doing out here? Testing missiles?"

It was just the perception they had tried very difficult to manufacture when they had built this place. Scott, not even bothering to look out through the windshield, knew what the driver was seeing. A runway that looked as if were littered with pot holes and uneven concrete slabs, grass spurting through at irregular intervals. A rusty hangar filled with holes and spiderwebs. The only thing about the airfield that looked new was the sparkling fence that surrounded it, marked with numerous huge signs warning of the voltage coursing through the metallic links. They were no joke, Scott knew, but they were only telling half of the story. Trespassers would be met with security rivaling the mansion's own. Logan had stressed over and over again that there could be no weak links in their security, a truth Scott knew only too well.

Instead of reacting, Scott simply pulled a money clip filled with neatly folded bills from his pocket. He shot a glance at the meter and pulled out the appropriate amount, including an extremely generous gratuity.

"It was my father's," Scott lied. "I'm trying to fix it up."

"Hey, thanks pal!" the cabbie said, his face glowing as he counted the money Scott handed him. "You sure you don't need a ride back into town?"

"I'm sure. Thank you." Scott shut the door behind him, shoving the money clip back into his pocket, and walked slowly towards the gate. He turned, staring through the windshield at the driver until the discomfort of his gaze prompted the cabbie to back up and pull out of the driveway. When he was confident the taxi was gone, Scott walked up to the gate and found a concealed keypad. After supplying a numeric password, voice and hand verification, Scott pulled a small key from the backside of his watch and slid it across a reader. Finally, the gate swung open. He turned his eyes as the three-dimensional hologram that covered the field shifted with the opening fence. It was highly disorienting.

When he stepped inside, there was Emma Frost, leaning impatiently against the rear door of one of Xavier's classic Rolls-Royce. Her lips, painted white, were bunched unhappily. Her arms were crossed, and the top portion of her face was almost completely hidden behind large, white-lensed sunglasses.

"Emma," Scott said, stopping just inside the fenced area as the gate closed automatically behind him. "I thought Hank was coming."

"He was," Emma said after a moment's pause. She uncrossed her arms and pushed off of the car. "Until I found out why he was leaving. You weren't going to call?"

"I left a message…"

"In the room, yes, I know. I'm coming with you."

"That's not a good idea," Scott said, shaking his head. "You're co-headmistress of the Institute. One of us needs to stay at the school." He could feel a tingling in the back of his head. She was reading his mind. As frustrating as it was, he didn't raise any mental shields. He had nothing to hide.

"So you're leaving me to deal with the shitstorm from the bus attack," Emma said. Scott knew the anger in her voice was more from hurt feelings than any aggravation at school-based responsibilities. She'd been a teacher before Scott ever was, and she was good at it. "Leaving me alone to deal with those wretched parents and the mental anguish of the students."

_This isn't about you,_ Scott thought towards the woman who he firmly believed he loved, despite their ups and down. He didn't have to be a telepath to know what Emma was thinking—Would you have left Jean?

It was an old fight and a sore subject. Maybe it always would be.

"Okay, so I can't leave, but why not take Logan? Hank? Hell, even Bobby or that brat Kitty and her Neanderthal boyfriend. Why must you go alone?"

"I'm not going alone…" Scott began.

"I'm not talking about Dr. Cooper or that silver-haired tramp," Emma said, cutting him off.

_Yep, she read my mind,_ Scott thought.

"Something or somebody made Bishop think he needed to attack an ambassador who we both know its highly unlikely he'd ever heard of. I could help you. You need me on this one," she said. Her voice was as close to pleading as it ever came.

Scott was slightly taken aback. "You're really worried about me," he said aloud, though it was meant more for himself.

"Of course I am!" she said. "And I just don't understand…"

"I'll be fine," Scott said, stepping forward. With just a few steps, he'd covered the distance between them. He ran his hands up and down her biceps and shoulders and kissed her lightly on the forehead. "I need to do this one," Scott said, looking deeply into her icy blue eyes. "Right now, with everything that's going on, I need to do this. Alone."

She looked at him, her eyes shifting from one lens of his sunglasses to the other. She was trying to understand, he knew. He wasn't sure he understood himself.

"Fine," she said finally, knocking his hands away. She turned and opened the back door of the car and pulled out a black duffel bag. She dropped it discourteously to the ground. "If you want to be alone, I'll leave you alone."

She dropped into the driver's seat of the car and revved the engine to life. Scott watched without comment as she veered towards the gate, waited for the fence to open, and then the outrageously expensive tires squealed as she zoomed out of sight, throwing gravel and dust behind her.

He shook his head as the gate closed once again. He stepped over to the duffel bag and unzipped it. There, on top, was his visor. He shifted the contents. A change of clothes, heavy jacket, boots. Whoever had packed the bag had known what they were doing. He closed it up and hefted it towards the hangar, which sparkled like new under the descending sun. He had a lot of work to do, and, checking his watch he noted, not much time to do it in. Working in silence, he started his walkaround, prepping the jet for takeoff.


	5. The Widow

There was nothing fun about being on a stakeout. There was no way of knowing how many years Natasha had spent throughout her career as a spy simply waiting for the proper moment to… whatever. One thing was certain, though. Sometime through the years, she'd decided that she didn't like it anymore. This particular evening, perched across from a movie theater where it was suspected a large portion of the Russian mafia was housed, she was finding it particularly painful. Her retirement, as short as it was, had done nothing for her patience.

It was at least a little comforting, knowing that Matt was with her, but he wasn't exactly known for his fondness for small talk. He'd sat, almost motionless, ear turned toward the theater, for what seemed like hours. Natasha, in the meantime, had occupied her time counting the windows around her, trying to estimate how many screens the theater had based on volume and average size and, her favorite game, trying to guess which movie the patrons entering the theater were going to see. Although the last one was perhaps the most fun, it was also fraught with a failure for there was no way to confirm if her guesses had been correct or not. There had been a few times when she'd just wanted to drop to the ground below, accost the strangers, and beg to see their ticket stubs.

The last hour, had been the worst, though. The theater had closed. The lights slowly winked out as the rooms were cleaned and abandoned. Black Widow watched as an older gentleman wearing coveralls exited a side door and locked it behind him.

"Okay," Matt said in his Daredevil voice. "That's the last of the staff. All the rest are Russians. The majority of them have made their way to one of the theaters. They're watching a movie."

Natasha looked over at Matt, whose face was half-hidden beneath his red mask. She saw him wince. He was trying to listen into the room, she guessed, and the volume of the movie was making it impossible, at this distance, to distinguish what was going on inside.

"Finally," Natasha said, standing and stretching her long legs. "I've always wanted to theater hop," she added as she shot her grappling hook to a building next to the theater. Dropping from the ledge, she used her wristbands motor to bring in the line, turning her outstretched legs, she arced her "fall" to land directly on the roof of the theater. As expected, Matt was right behind her.

She headed to the side of the building, looking down it. "You'll have to go down two stories," Daredevil said. "The windows on the top story are all wired."

"Noted," Widow said. She chose not to add that the alarm systems wouldn't have been a problem. The real issue was that they could easily just go around them without running the risk of tripping one at all. Activating the tips in her gloves and boots, Natasha touched the parapet. As expected, the fingertips grabbed and held fast. With practiced ease, Natasha began scaling, headfirst, down the wall. The 'suction' in her costume held a large portion of her weight, but it was still no simple task. Her long red hair fell and almost passed the window as she descended. _Right,_ she thought. _**That's**__ why I wore my hair short._

She sidled a few paces and then climbed down farther, until she reached the second story from the top. Careful eyes examined the sill for anything Matt might have missed. Once she was confident there weren't any surprises, she pulled out a sharp, short blade from her belt. With a few quick strokes, she'd successfully separated the glass from the seal surrounding it. The pane fell inwards and, as it was constructed of tempered glass, it simply fell to the floor with a thud.

Black Widow slipped inside, ducking out of the light coming from the street below and into the shadows. Matt, who'd clearly heard her enter, swung through the window, holding onto his club. Amazingly, he landed clear of the pane and was already stepping forward past Natasha as his club rewound its cord.

They had entered into an office. Judging by the size and the quality of the furniture, Natasha guessed it must have belonged to one of the higher muckity-mucks at the theater. Though she knew it was bad, she got a little thrill from breaking into his office. She hoped a pigeon relieved itself on his leather chair.

Matt led the way to the door. He paused, undoubtedly listening down the hall, then opened the office door. Natasha followed in silence. The wide hallway was lit only by the exit signs on each end, casting a red sheen over everything. Natasha trusted Matt, but she couldn't help checking all of the corners. No signs of cameras. She closed the door behind her, making sure that the it was left unlocked. The opened window would be an easy source of escape, and she didn't want to accidentally sabotage it.

Leaning in Natasha's direction, Daredevil whispered in her ear. "There," he said, pointing to a set of double-doors leading into one of the screening rooms. "There's…" he paused. "At least two dozen of them." Natasha looked at him. It was unlike Matt to be unsure. "I think," he added. Now she was really suspicious.

He moved on, and Natasha didn't second-guess him. Twenty-four men, caught by surprise while they were watching a dumb movie… The two of them would hardly break a sweat.

Matt opened the door silently and the two of them moved incredibly slowly up the ramp, hugging the wall. The movie was lit up on the screen, and the volume seemed turned up to an inordinately high level. Daredevil didn't even wait to reach the top of the ramp. Leaping over the half-wall that marked the entrance into the large room, he disappeared from Natasha's view. She dashed in, fully expecting to rush to the opposite side of the room and give Matt some cover. Instead, she skidded to a halt. Matt was bent, on his knees, clutching his ears as she'd only seen him do on one other occasion.

When that assassin had used the SHIELD-designed hockey puck to broadcast that sound and knock Matt for a loop. "Shit," she spat. The lights came up, leaving her blinking, and shedding light on, not twenty-four men caught by surprise watching a movie, but what looked like fifty heavily armed and, apparently, armored men. The black tips of the rifles leveled in Natasha's direction.

"Well, isn't this just typical," she said, smirking.

"Black Widow," a voice said to her right in her native Russian. "Traitor to Mother Russia…"

Natasha turned her head to see a truly massive man, his face largely hidden behind a large pair of sunglasses but strangely familiar, standing near the first row of seats. In his hand, as she thought, was the familiar hockey-puck sized device. How they'd gotten their hands on the blueprints was a mystery for another time.

"… This is an unexpected, but welcome, surprise. Tonight, you will die for your crimes."

The Black Widow pursed her lips. "If I had a ruble for every time I've heard those words," she said as she raised hands over her head slowly, "They would still be worth _shit!" _

She dropped her arms and shot the two nearest men with her "widow's bite" before they could even pull their triggers. Turning, she scanned the room with sharp eyes. Even as bullets started to rain around her, she moved gracefully, like a ballerina, spinning and waiting for her targets to present themselves. Before she'd ever been granted the name Black Widow, Natasha had learned to _feel_ when a gun was pointed at her. Most of the guns currently trained in her direction weren't even close.

In a crowd, even as large as this one, there were always only a few men who were truly capable of killing. Most of them were content to leave the job to someone else. The secret was to find those who were actually capable of _aiming._

The widow's bite claimed another victim, and another. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw Matt climb over a row of chairs, and fall out of clear vision. It wasn't much cover, but it was better than being a sitting duck. One mobster leapt in front of Natasha, gun leveled at her stomach.

She kicked, knocking the barrel towards the roof as it exploded a barrage of bullets. Stepping forward, she spun, landing a fist across his face. She heard his jaw shatter, and she stepped on his face as she ran over him, pulling the gun from his hands. With a rain of completely random fire, she put most of the men on the defensive, ducking for cover. Then she, too, turned the barrel of the gun upwards, only she was aiming for the lights. The automatic weapon shook her body as flames danced from its barrel. Soon, the room was once again thrown into darkness, only the light from the projection room, the movie, could be seen.

One of the more zealous, and stupid, mobsters leapt at Natasha, a large knife flashing. She caught his arm in midair, turning and slamming his body to the ground. Twisting his wrist, she stripped the knife from his hand and bending, slit his throat with one quick, sickening motion. Blood splattered onto the surrounding seats as she lifted the knife and flung it with deadly accuracy. It slammed into another gunman's eye socket, burying to the hilt.

Thusly she made her way, methodically and violently, up and up until she had reached the row directly under the projector. Kneeling behind the row of chairs in front of her, she aimed the rifle she had robbed from another of her victims into the darkness below. A burst of rifle fire caught her eye, she turned and fired, aiming for the unseen assailant.

Perched above the rest of the theater, she easily mowed down several more targets who either tried to shoot at her or move slowly up towards her, their movements catching her eye.

The pane of glass shattered behind her, smashed by a pistol butt, showering shards into her hair. Natasha rolled, but the gun fired, grazing her back and shoulder as she tried to duck away. She cried out in a mixture of pain and ferocity, dropping onto her freshly wounded back and raining bullets into man leaning from the small projection window. The pistol dropped from his limp hand. His body, slumped in front of the movie projector, cast the room into an even more overwhelming darkness. The Widow was on her knees in an instant, wincing at the pain suddenly cutting across her back, but scanning the room methodically for any sign of life. In this darkness, though, things got a little trickier. Suddenly, there was no way to tell friend from foe…

"Enough!" an extremely gruff voice cried. The Russian accent was thick, but there was something else strange about the man's speech. "I have your friend, Black Widow. Give up now!"

Natasha swore a long string of Russian curse words under he breath, still hiding behind the chairs, gun at the ready. Again, there was no way of telling whether the burly-sounding man was telling the truth. _Well,_ she thought to herself, _let's change that._

Ducking behind the chairs, she crawled to the projection room. With one firm push, she shoved the dead man's body out of the projection room window, flooding the room with an eerie blue light. Natasha gasped at the sight that sprang to life. Standing clearly in the aisle was a giant bear on its back legs. It was larger than any natural species. Natasha was sure of that, and its long claws gleamed in the darkness. Dangling from its right paw was Matt. He looked unconscious. Natasha didn't even want to think about the other possibility. In the bear's other paw was the hockey-puck sized device that had taken Matt out of commission to begin with.

"Face it, Natasha," the gruff voice said. It took her a second to realize that it was the _bear_ that was speaking to her. Her eyes narrowed and her stomach sank.

"It's over," he said.


End file.
